


the sun caught in his raven hair  (like fire, hellfire)

by dreamsoverdeath (dheiress)



Series: fusion [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996) Fusion, Betrayal, Dark, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Unrequited Lust, someone should probably keep me away from these pairings, that's actually a tag!!!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 02:47:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13331871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dheiress/pseuds/dreamsoverdeath
Summary: Look at him.He dances on the stage, the swirling fire that complements his prancing steps highlighting the robes wrapped around him in an almost translucent fineness.(kyrie eleison, lord have mercy)





	the sun caught in his raven hair  (like fire, hellfire)

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to do a Hunchback of Notre Dame fusion but I couldn't choose between a Frollo!LV with Quasi!HP and Esmeralda!HP with Phoebus!Tom. *sighs*
> 
> three guesses what I ended up writing (and no the first two don't count)

 

 

 

 

_kyrie eleison_

lord have mercy

 

 

 

 

“Now, people of magical Britain, our dear Minister Lord Voldemort! Everybody! Come one, come all! Witness this very lovely surprise— _Danse Émeraude, danse_!”

 

 

 

The pastel coloured smoke from the Weasley twins’ toy bomb clears and Nagini’s lovely scaled head snaps up in shock as Lord Voldemort himself freezes at the sight.

Look at him.

 

He dances on the stage, the swirling fire that complements his prancing steps highlighting the robes wrapped around him in an almost translucent fineness. Even from this distance, Lord Voldemort can see the boy’s green eyes alight with daring mischief as he jumps and twirls, the watching crowd going wild with cheers. They do not know this boy; they must think him a mere performer, a trickster that controls fire like an art. They must think themselves worthy of the boy and his dance, that they are entitled to watch or even know of his existence.

 

_They are not._

Lord Voldemort should obliviate them all, or no, memory charms have always been unreliable no matter how much a master of the mind the caster is, he should kill them all instead. Only he must know of the boy, only he _can_ know of the boy and his magnificence, there is reason why he has kept him locked away where no one else can see.

_Look at him._

His hair, black as ink, black as a raven’s feathers, catches the sun and it ignites fury deep in Lord Voldemort’s chest. How many times has he caressed those curls so that the boy may fall asleep in his arms? How many secrets has he crooned to those ears, assured that the boy will have no one else to talk to aside for Lord Voldemort himself and Nagini? The boy’s lithe arms sweeps looping, graceful arcs through the air, green fire trailing right after the pale fingers as if it has no choice, no desire, to do otherwise.

 

Has he not told the boy to stay in their chambers, to wait for Lord Voldemort at the end of the day and soothe all ill feelings this Festival inevitably burdens him with?  Who is the fool that let the boy out? It must be the Weasley twins; their tomfoolery knows no bounds, after all. But how did they sneak inside a place he warded so well not even a part of his own soul can get into unless Lord Voldemort desires so? Nagini coils around his leg; Lord Voldemort clutches his armrest tight. They must have told the boy lies to encourage him to spend a day outside and leave the safety of his sanctuary. They must be punished, those twins, oh, once Lord Voldemort gets his hands on them, not even their pure blood can make him think twice. Look at what they have done. Now, he must share the boy with the world (he cannot, he cannot, he would not, he would never).

 

_Just look at him._

His eyelashes fluttering to keep out the large beads of sweat from rolling into his green, green eyes, his red mouth chasing breaths, his chest heaving so prettily in exhaustion.

He is so beautiful and he is Lord Voldemort’s very own.

 

 

 

 

_kyrie eleison_

lord have mercy

 

 

 

 

Look at him.

 

He dances on the stage, green flames pursuing his steps, devouring the air his fingers have caressed. The thin silk he has been draped in teases Tom with silhouettes of soft flesh contrasted by svelte muscles. His green eyes winks and flirts with the crowd but they keep returning back to that one person, that figure in the elevated iron throne, a secret smile on the plush lips.

 

Tom knows of the boy’s existence, of course, knows that once upon a time there have been _Potters_ and a rumoured weapon with the power to vanquish Lord Voldemort. It is the reason he has been woken up, after all, to serve and protect _Lord Voldemort_ (the name still leaves ashes on his tongue; it has been almost twenty years since Tom has started using it not to refer to himself but to another and yet the feeling of being robbed of something his has not ceased) _._ He even knows what use his future counterpart has first planned of the boy. What Tom does not know, does not understand, is why Lord Voldemort turns from using the boy as a symbol of his unbeaten rule to hiding him from everyone, even Tom himself.

 

Now, Tom no longer wonders why the great Lord Voldemort keeps the boy to himself. Tom Riddle takes pleasure in anything and everything beautiful. Seven horcruxes and a wizarding world to rule over later, it seems that still rings true for Lord Voldemort.

 

_Look at him._

 

His right foot draws a large ‘s’ on the stage’s floor and a sliver of his flame, the size of a large snake hatchling, follows the track enthusiastically. He sways, sashays, and twirls on a pole somebody has summoned, his green fire twisting around him and nipping the ends of his dancing limbs. Tom imagines those thighs bracketing him, gripping him tight as he thrust inside—

 

“ _Is that… Harry Potter?”_ Tom asks Lord Voldemort, though he is already certain it is. Lord Voldemort’s nostrils flare, his beloved snake twining itself tighter around his legs. Comforting. Tom finds it quaintly funny how much Nagini and Lord Voldemort resemble a cosseting mother and her irritable child.

 

 _“He is,”_ the serpentine man grits out, his knuckles gripping the armrests of the Minister’s special seat raised amongst the throng of the common wizardry folk.

 

Harry does a split, his flame crowning him with a green snake eating its own tail; catcalls echo through the audience. Tom wonders what other flexible things that body can do.

 

“ _My,”_ Tom smiles, those thighs seriously, “ _what a delectable thing he has grown up to be.”_

 

Lord Voldemort eyes widens, boiling rage overcoming the simmering lust in those red, inhuman pupils.

_“He is mine,”_ Lord Voldemort hisses at him and though Tom chuckles playfully, he nods, acknowledging the fact. It does not deter him the least but it is important that Lord Voldemort thinks it does.

 

_Just look at him._

He is looking at Lord Voldemort’s direction and, by proxy, he is looking at Tom’s direction. Flushed, sweat drenched, and panting, Merlin, the boy is a carnal dream. No wonder the crowd is going wild, no wonder Lord Voldemort does not want to share (not that Tom Riddle ever did, ever will).

 

 _“Of course, he is your possession,”_ Tom agrees. _For now,_ he amends in the privacy of his mind.

 

_Look._

Long lashes fluttering over eyes as green as the killing curse, cream skin toned by light muscles, red mouth open in a silent plea to be devoured—

 

Harry Potter is so beautiful and Tom Riddle wants him for his own.

 

(too long since he has been an orphan boy wanting but denied of everything, perhaps that is why Lord Voldemort has forgotten this:

 

whatever Tom Riddle covets, he acquires in whatever way possible—

 

whoever the original owner may be)

 

 

 

 

_dies irae, dies illa_

day of wrath, that day

 

 

 

 

(     seventeen years ago, Lord Voldemort strikes Lily Potter down just as she reaches the edges of the wards protecting Hogwarts. The green light of an avada kedavra envelops her and she gives a cry, twisting her body to protect the clothed cargo in her arms.  She must have thought she would find sanctuary in her old school, under her old headmaster. She did not know that Dumbledore has fallen mere hours ago, killed by a curse not of Lord Voldemort’s but of Tom Riddle’s, placed on an aged ring lifetimes ago, fuelled by wrath and vengeance and grief and guilt—

 

Lord Voldemort takes the bundle this girl child tried so hard to hide from him. He pries it from her dead, limp arms, the supposed weapon of Dumbledore’s Order his servants have been hearing in the hushed but reverent whispers of weak-willed witches and wizards. The weapon with a power Lord Voldemort knows not, the weapon to be wielded by the one destined to vanquish him. Unwrapping the parcel, he expects perhaps a tome or a cursed artefact of some sort, maybe even another of his horcruxes discovered by the meddling old fool Dumbledore. It can be anything, it can even be—

 

_A baby._

Lord Voldemort stares at the sleeping babe, undisturbed by the struggle its mother has put up. It’s such a pink thing, small and huddled, with a mop of ink black hair atop its tiny head. A baby. He remains uncomprehending, for several moments before—

 

Laughter, thick and so delighted, erupts from his throat.

 

This? This is the supposed weapon to save the wizarding world? The supposed chosen one to vanquish him?

 

_This baby?_

 

He laughs again, the sound bubbling at the bottom of his throat, the sheer ludicrousness of the whole thing amusing him. Here Lord Voldemort is, silently panicking at the idea of some mysterious device, some omnipotent power that may strike him down, cut his prophesized reign before it begins.  He has even awakened his oldest horcrux, given the memory of a boy a body to help him hunt down everything and anything that could bring trouble to Lord Voldemort. While here they are, Dumbledore’s strongest, most trusted pawns, gambling their faith, their lives, their everything on _a baby._ He shakes the thing in his arms. It does not cry but its green eyes opens and latches on him. Lord Voldemort laughs again. It doesn’t even realize its parents are dead and Lord Voldemort, someone who can kill it, who will kill it, is the one holding it tight.

 

It giggles and the sound sparks an idea, opens a pathway as clear as lightning. Something Lord Voldemort has never considered before. Lord Voldemort closes his eyes, spares a moment and two to appreciate his own cleverness and creativity. Oh, Lord Voldemort is a lord of grace and wit, indeed. Killing the child will be too quick, too much of a mercy. The ones who doubted him, who thought he will be bested by a mere infant, they will need to be taught a lesson too.

 

 

He will mark this child, not as his equal but as something irrevocably his, he will show the world that nothing can kill Lord Voldemort, that any who dare will only solidify his strength. This child will only be the beginning     )

 

 

 

  
_solvet saeclum in favilla_

shall consume the world in ashes

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: kudos to [Run_of_the_mill](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Run_of_the_mill/pseuds/Run_of_the_mill) for correcting my lame attempt at French!


End file.
